


Down to the Crossroads

by america_oreosandkitkats



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, damnit can it be summer already?, proof that i can write something other than sadness and angst, some sexy dancing, this is very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6287542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/america_oreosandkitkats/pseuds/america_oreosandkitkats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer, and a swing and blues exchange is in town. Time for Rey to dust off her dancin' shoes and be that wild, crazy college junior all the songs say she's supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down to the Crossroads

Rey has been marking the days with black x-es on the calendar posted over her desk since Finn bought the tickets back in June. This weekend—August 20th to the 22nd—are circled in red with arrows pointing to it. She’s written _Exchange_ across the days in bold letters with several exclamation marks after it.

 

She busts her ass off at school to maintain the three-five required for aid (she has a three- _seven_ though, thank you very much) and busts her ass off at Unkar’s chop shop (four-hour evening shifts during the week and eight-hour shifts on the weekends). On this one weekend, she’s _allowed_ to be the wild, young and carefree girl all the songs and movies say she’s supposed to be.

 

Unkar barks at her from his air conditioned office to get back to work. She tries to focus on the cracked radiator before her, but her mind is on the clock hanging on the blue-tiled wall above tool wall.

 

_Tick. Tock._

 

When the clock strikes four, she almost hits her head on the hood of the red Oldsmobile. Her heart is in her throat and her body hums in anticipation as she wipes the oil from her hands. Nic shoots her a smile and tells her to “get outta here and have fun.” Rey throws her messenger bag and a goodbye over her shoulder. Unkar snorts as she slides her time card into the _out_ rung.

 

The summer sun is hot and the air is thick. Sweat beads on her back as she jumps on the Red Line and squeezes between its rush hour patrons. Rey tucks her earphones in and turns her playlist up to eleven and let’s the thumping rhythm and cool melody take her home to the Kendall/MIT stop.

 

***

 

Finn taught her how to dance.

 

He was in her 8 AM Monday/Thursday intro to physics class and the two of them were paired up for Wednesday lab. They become fast friends over the coffee that was needed to pull through such an ordeal and over their laptops, compiling reports late into the night in the library. In the spring of ’12, they were still meeting for lattes at 7:45, even though physics has long ended. He asked her, one day, to come with him to Swing Club.

 

Triple-step, triple-step, rock-step was the basic move for the six-count Lindy Hop, otherwise known as East Coast Swing. It was easy enough once the uninitiated follow got used to being so _close_ to people—even if it _was_ just her best friend Finn. With his hand on her back, her arm draped over his, they clasped their free hands together and began to move.

 

When he took a step back, she took a step back and their momentum built. He pulled her in, lifted his arm and swung her under the bridge. They were on the opposite ends of a rubber band now, taut and connected only by their hands. She mouths the pattern _triple-step, triple-step._ He gently pulled her back in and spun her around and, honestly, it was as close to flying as she could ever get.

 

She came back the next week.

 

***

 

After a quick scrub and generous help from her roommate, Jess Pava, on proper eyeliner wrist-flicking, she’s out the door.

 

Rey’s dress is simple, but it was cheap. It’s an off-white, almost khaki color, with a violet ribbon wrapping around her waist. The neckline comes to just under her collar bone, which is a bit of a bummer, but the most important thing is that the skirt is an A-line. Every time Finn twirls her around, the skirt will billow and swish and she’ll feel—as foolish and petty as it sounds— _pretty_.

 

She smooths out the skirt and glances at her hands. Her nails are chewed down the quick and no matter how much she scrubs, the oil never seems to lift completely from the pads of her fingers.

 

Finn meets her on the Maverick station platform with a bright grin and a hug as warm as the sun. He’s dressed in a blue button-up rolled up to his elbows, a brown vest and khaki slacks. Finn’s been dressing a little sharper ever since that tousled-haired grad student from Harvard started showing up to Swing Club. She knows why, but has yet to hear it straight from him—she thinks she should try pushing the vodka on him the next time they’re downtown.

 

Rey slides her arm through his and they practically Charleston all the way to the Pier.

 

The sun is scorching and the the harbor’s scent is cloying with brine. But the smoke wafting from the barbeque pits is sweet enough to make her mouth water. A live band croons out a quick little number from under a white tent, and there’s at least a hundred people swinging on the pier’s narrow strip.

 

The horn player runs over a scale and trills at the end of the phrase and it sends a jolt through Rey so sudden and so bright that goosebumps rush over her arms.

 

They find that grad student— _Poe_ , his name is—dancing with an older woman, small and with large, thick glasses. Poe’s crouched low with one arm over her shoulder; hers is over his. Their heads are held up high, but their feet are quick. Their dance is playful and fun, because swing is nothing but a series of finely interwoven performances between yourself, your partner and the crowd.

 

Poe swings the woman around and as the song ends, he dips her with great exaggeration. “Always a pleasure dancing with you, Maz,” he says as the floor breaks apart. He looks over to them and winks at Finn (it _has_ to be for Finn).

 

The singer announces that the band is taking a break and a Diana Krall CD fills their absence.

 

Poe is in a white, linen shirt, all but the last three buttons pinned up and suicidally dark jeans. When the grad student approaches the two of them, Finn breaks into a grin as sweet as honey. Poe is drenched in sweat, smells like expensive, spicy cologne and when he asks Finn to join him for the next number, Finn goes.

 

Rey can’t imagine how sweet they’ll be when they’re finally together.

 

***

 

The banner that hangs across the pier reads _At the Crossroads: Boston Swing and Blues Exchange 2016_. By the time the shadows are long, Rey has Charlestoned, Lindy-ed, even Boogie-Woogied, but she hasn’t heard a note of blues. Finn tells her that _that_ part of the exchange is at another venue, a few blocks away inside an old factory of some sort, retrofitted to be a dance hall. He points to it. The building is dark grey, almost black with a few windows lit gold, but is otherwise completely nondescript.

 

“Don’t worry about blues,” Finn tells her while they do a mid-tempo East Coast bit. “They like to say it’s as old as swing, but it’s not. It’s more modern fusion than than anything.”

 

“Besides that,” Poe interjects from the bench he sits on. She and Finn are dancing close enough to the edge of the pier that they can hold a conversation with him. “Most of the blues dancers I know are…weird. It’s not worth your trouble, Sunshine.”

 

Rey’s absolute favorite thing about Poe is that he gives out nicknames like kindergarten teachers give out candy. Last month, when she was embroiled in lab work, she was Tinker Rey.

 

The song fades out and the singer starts to croon something slow and nice. Poe stands and asks to cut in. They sway to the singer’s melancholic, yearning notes. Rey leans against the bench and watches them while something warm settles in her chest. She’s never _really_ wanted a boyfriend. She has way too much on her mind and way too much to do in any given set of 24 hours. But doesn’t everyone, deep down, wish they had a _someone_ who looked at them with all the wonder of the moon and stars?

 

Her attention darts between her friends and the old, grey factory. Curiosity tugs at her as if she’s a kite in air.

 

***

 

When the sky is dark and the strung-lights burn amber and when Poe and Finn have left her to her own devices, Rey decides to walk towards the old factory. She texts Finn that she went out for fresh air and she’ll be back soon. She checks her battery, 43%, and slides it back into her small, tawny satchel. She just wants to _look_. In and out. No sweat.

 

Even though the sun has dipped below the horizon and the city sparkles with streetlight, the air is still thick and warm and furls around her ankles.

 

The music grows as she approaches the building. It sinks into the cobbled streets and thrums through her legs and up into her heart. It nestles in her bones and the words sung _pull_ at her. Its raucous beat and bittersweet melody sway her hips. The singer’s forlorn wail entices her inside.

 

All of the windows are blown open, but it’s still hot and humid inside this surprisingly small arena. There are about sixty bodies in the middle of the dance floor with a smattering of folks on the perimeter, bottles of water or cups of beer in their hands.

 

Rey pulls herself to the side, out of the way. She grasps her arm and feels herself shrink into the crowd, hoping to disappear like vapor.

 

She has to admit that she’s never seen anything quite like blues dancing before. It’s passionate like tango, but more fluid. Hips and arms sway like they’re caught on a breeze. There are twists and turns and little bounces like in swing, but it’s more subdued. More ephemeral.

 

One, dressed in scarlet and black with long, floppy hair, dips his partner so low, she’s almost parallel with the ground. She’s blonde and in a short, clingy silver dress with a slits up the sides. When the guitar titters out its next harmonic runs, her shoulders pulse to the beat. She adds a little shimmy and a smile to her lead. He brings her upright, as if she weighs nothing more than a doll, and spins her once, twice, three times to the beat of the song. She’s back in his arms, close like they’ll meld right into each other if the room gets any hotter.

 

Rey suddenly feels very plain and ordinary, and very much like a child in the deep end of a pool. The singer’s voice is haunting and the guitarist doesn’t so much pluck the notes as he plucks little pieces of her soul. So, despite her better judgment, she stays.

 

The song ends and much like at the end of swing numbers, many of the leads dip their follows. The man in the scarlet shirt dips the blonde again, but not nearly as deep.

 

Rey claps with the rest of them for the band. The singer thanks them and throws out a _how we doin, Bos-ton_ , eliciting a round of whoops, cheers and hollers from the crowd.

 

The next notes coming from the keyboard are like rain pelting the roof during a storm. The guitar cuts through the melody. The singer calls out the title of this song, _Five Long Years_ by Freddie King, and he starts to sing.

 

She closes her eyes and bobs to the melody. Swing fills her with joy, but nothing has dragged her into an entanglement of complex emotions quite like this before.

 

“You’ve never danced before, have you?” a resonant tenor asks. Rey snaps her eyes open and jumps at what’s before her—the man in the scarlet shirt.

 

Now that he’s actually before her, she can see how _big_ he is. He has at least half of a foot on her and twice the frame. He can’t be any older than his late-twenties. His face, however, is a constellation of freckles and moles; his lips full and soft-looking. He could be much younger. The man is an odd clashing of _hard_ and _soft_ and it’s difficult to tear her eyes from his hazel gaze.

 

“I dance,” she insists, a little perturbed that a stranger would make such judgments on her. He smirks at her scowl and it ignites her ire. He’s sweaty and smells like stale cigarettes.

 

“Come on,” he says, extending a hand to her. A challenge.

 

Rey looks at his bumpy and calloused hands, and wonders what he does when he’s not dipping gorgeous six-footed blondes or pulsing to such an enchanting melody.

 

The singer howls. She can’t help but keen to his hurt.

 

“It’s the blues,” the man says softly, with a smirk. “Don’t worry. I feel it too.”

 

She takes his hand. The grin on his face turns genuine and she thinks he might even be handsome. He escorts her to the dance floor.

 

The music is practically intoxicating this close to the band. She closes her eyes and swims in it.

 

He’s got a hand on her back and she drapes her arm on his, as she’s been taught. His hold is firm, but gentle—his role is to guide, not to demand. This is familiar.

 

But then he pulls her even closer and she gasps. The closest Rey has ever been to a follow is during Charleston, but even then, that connection is at the hip. Here, she _leans_ on the man in the scarlet shirt. The way they’re connected, she can feel every one of his movements: every shoulder jerk, every hip roll. His scent, woodsy and masculine and with the faintest thread of tobacco, is thrilling.

 

“Your frame is good,” he says as they find the rhythm. “But you’re stiff.”

 

Rey bristles and wonders if this man is going to shoot down every nice feeling the dance brings to her. She looks _up_ at him and glares at him. He looks _down_ and smirks.

 

“I’m _not_ ,” she rebuffs.

 

“You are, trust me. By the feel of it, you’re either…ballroom or Lindy?”

 

“Lindy,” she says with the hint of incredulity. “Why would you say ballroom?”

 

He moves his hips in small arcs, and she follows. He slides his leg out and they _sink_ into the melody. His fingertips blaze a trail up her hip, up her side, up her arm and to her wrist; she follows him and her arm is outstretched. He drapes it around his neck and falls into the beat again, hips to the left and then to the right. Her right arm, the one holding his hand, falls to her side and she is ensnared by the movement of his hips. She too moves left, then right, but her movements are stronger, more exaggerated. His hand slides a little bit down her back and they sit apart as they fall into the music again.

 

“I say that, because ballroom people and your people are usually pretty…perplexed by how _intimate_ blues can be.”

 

Poe _had_ said they were weird people and she’s beginning to wonder why she ventured out here. But she finds herself rocking her shoulders to the beat anyway. The man keeps her tethered here—he hasn’t pulled her back yet—and so she lets her hips follow her shoulders.

 

She is water incarnate, flowing to the will of the singer, to the bawl of the guitar, to the hold he has on her. He watches her roll in and and with the music, enticed. She can’t take her eyes off of his either.

 

It’s hot as hell in here.

 

He pulls her in. He turns them and she lifts her leg, dragging her knee up the side of his leg. And then, suddenly, she’s looking at the ceiling. She’s looking at him, their noses near enough to touch. Her heart beats in her ears, almost loud enough to drown out the melodic misery. His hand wanders up her side again. She reaches out and touches his face and they both flinch, as if shocked.

 

The man in the scarlet shirt pulls her up and they turn once, twice on the waves of the bridge.

 

“You’re a natural,” he says in her ear and it sends shivers down her spine. “You need a teacher. You could be amazing.”

 

She isn’t as barbed by this as she should.

 

When the song ends, he dips her again, low like the blonde woman, close to the floor. She shimmies to the final drawl of the guitar, the crescendo of the drums and there’s a _hunger_ in his eyes as his gaze darts between her eyes and her mouth. Rey has never made a man _want_ her before. It’s intriguing the same way a forest fire is. She smirks, satisfied.

 

He pulls her upright. “What’s your name?” he asks in a low, husky voice. Something trembles deep inside her and she knows on some instinctual level that she should _not_ give this man her real name.

 

But before she can stop herself, she says, “Rey.” And adds, “Yours?”

 

“Kyle,” he replies.

 

She raises her brow at that. “You don’t look like a Kyle.”

 

“And you are _not_ the first person to tell me that.”

 

She wonders what his real name is. Instead, she inquires about his work. He says he’s an entrepreneur, which is a fancy way of saying he’s unemployed. She tries to find it in herself to be irked by his being here if he has no income. Tickets for the exchange started at 50 dollars.

 

“You’re a student, I presume.”

 

“At the university,” she says.

 

“This is Boston. You’ll have to narrow it down a bit.”

 

“Why don’t I leave that for next time?” she says. It’s not that she has anything to hide—Rey is quite proud of her enrollment at MIT. But that little tease brings out _hope_ in his gaze. She focuses on that need, that want in his expression because yes, she feels it too.

 

He hasn’t let go of her hand. She steps back and he steps toward her.

 

Her phone buzzes and pings. It’s a text from Finn, wondering where she is and if she wants to come with Poe and him to get drinks at Eddie C’s up the street. She tells him sure, with an ETA of 15.

 

She looks at the man, _Kyle_ , as she returns her phone to her satchel. Maybe next time, he’ll tell her his real name too. He sets his jaw, anticipation maybe, knitted into his scowl.

 

“Are you here all weekend?” Kyle asks as he closes the small distance between them. She’s near enough again to count the freckles across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks. Her head pounds and she’s sure it has nothing to do with the music.

 

The next number is slower, where the guitar twangs and the singer growls. He pulls her close and they swing around his pivot point. She is the moon and he is the Earth. She breathes him in.

 

“I’ll see you again?” he murmurs into her ear. It sounds like a demand.

 

She stops, pulls away and looks up at him. She quirks her eyebrow and smirks, which makes his glower fade into something softer. He’s amused. Electrified, Rey says, “We shall see.”

 

She lets go of his hand and steps outside.

 

As she makes her way to the bar, the cool air rolls over her shoulders. Crickets chirp. And the distant sound of blues and swing blends together in a strange sort of harmonious way. She’s giddy and light and laughs to herself, running her hands through her hair trying to piece together _what exactly happened back there_. She’s breathless.

 

Rey checks the venue for tomorrow on her phone and wonders how she’ll steal a moment like this again.

 

The moon is high and bright as she dashes away towards the bar.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _References, because describing dancing is hard_  
> [Poe/Maz dance from 2:26-2:35 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHtm_KIUDqA%20)  
> [Kylo and Phasma's dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP5oXsY-XFg) is based heavily on, but not necessarily a play-by-play of 5:48 to 7:22.  
> [Rey and Kylo first dance](https://youtu.be/XMa8mkkZ3ao?t=113) is also not a play by play, but heavily inspired from 1:13 to 3:40.
> 
>  _A Short Playlist For You:_  
> [ E Flat Boogie, Buster Smith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rs-uRrhyW2A): The song that's playing when Rey and Finn enter the Pier.  
> [Aveva Una Cassetta, Sugarpie and the Candymen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WsnGnFsDW4): The "midtempo" song that Finn and Rey dance to (better version is on Spotify)  
> [Five Long Years, Freddie King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCGQAKnx78c): Rey and Kylo's first dance.


End file.
